


am i still alive or has the light gone black

by thedivinemove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, Season 2 AU, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 14:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedivinemove/pseuds/thedivinemove
Summary: She suspects things, of course, but they are too ridiculous to be true. She's a scientist, has a logical, calculating mind that relies on mathematics and the laws of physics. There is no place in there for things that can't be explained, so what is she supposed to do with the marks on her neck that fit no formula? She's read her books, sure, but Lydia Martin has never been one to live her life outside of reality.





	am i still alive or has the light gone black

**Author's Note:**

> THE MULTICHAPTER VAMPIRE PYDIA NO ONE ASKED FOR!

 

Her memories are fragmented, unfamiliar. Some of them feel impossible, like sugary romantic dates with Jackson or shopping for clothes she can't find now in her closet. Some of them seem completely out of context, beginning or ending abruptly with no connection to previous events. And some of them are missing.

There are black, gaping holes in her memory; holes she _needs_ filling. It might be because of her knowledge-hungry persona, or because of the need to regain control over her life, or maybe it's just trivial curiosity that pushes her to dig deeper.

She gets headaches from the constant crawling through her mind, the tiresome searches of why, when, and what for; slowly she manages to break some of the walls around the real memories and revels in the retrieved shards.

And she takes more pills.

 

-

 

It's easy – so easy to pretend she's fine, that everything is the way it's supposed to be, especially when her friends treat her like a brainless doll and go on as if _nothing ever happened._

Sure, she wandered naked through a forest for two days, right after she'd been attacked by a raging animal right outside her school – but what's there to wonder about? Only sometimes from the corner of her eye she can see their concerned glances and whispered conversations, always at a safe distance away from her.

Except that a) other people are pretty certain that Lydia is utterly, completely nuts, and b) no animal's bite leaves two identical punctured holes on its victim's neck, of all places.

But Lydia keeps quiet, and with a glossy pink smile plays her part.

 

-

 

There's this boy in school, the one with unnervingly pale blue eyes who doesn't seem to mind talking to her. He's sarcastic and vicious, and really gorgeous – she's not blind, okay? – and he makes her strangely calm and nervous at the same time. She likes talking to him, not that she'd ever admit that to anyone ever; flirting with good-looking boys reminds her of the days before the accident, when she was the queen bee on top of the ladder.

There's something about him that feels familiar; something in the curve of his jaw, or the glow in his eyes, but she can't quite put a finger on it. It shouldn't be surprising, though – they've been going to school together for some time now, she's bound to have met him in the hallways numerous times already.

Still, when he brings back her dog one evening and gives her a flower, asking for a kiss – there's something tugging at her mind, something telling her that none of it is quite right.

 

-

 

She remembers looking for Jackson that night (the night it all went to hell), what for – she isn't sure. She remembers stepping out of the building and onto the lacrosse field; the chilly night air biting her skin, making her regret leaving her coat behind.

She remembers hearing her name, turning around, seeing Stiles – terrified and breathless and running in her direction as if his life depended on it (or hers, which was actually quite true).

She remembers cold breath on her neck, and teeth – thin and sharp as knives – diving into her skin.

A scream bubbling at the back of her throat.

Then – darkness.

 

-

 

She suspects things, of course, but they are too ridiculous to be true. She's a scientist, has a logical, calculating mind that relies on mathematics and the laws of physics. There is no place in there for things that can't be explained, so what is she supposed to do with the marks on her neck that fit no formula? She's read her books, sure, but Lydia Martin has never been one to live her life outside of reality.

People die. They say it's from animal attacks – the police searching tirelessly through the woods, only to find more bodies drained of blood. She can see the changes in some of the kids from her school, like the boys suddenly excelling at lacrosse, Erica Reyes' sudden transformation into a heartbreaking femme fatale with gorgeous hair, and Jackson's bizarre behaviour.

There are also other things that would fit into a young adult book for frustrated housewives, that have Lydia reeling on the inside.

Like a bunch of teenagers trying to kill her.

Or Allison's tasteless scarf one day in school.

(They are reapplying their make up in the bathroom during the break, when Lydia notices two tiny dots underneath the vile green silk her friend has draped around her neck. She raises her eyebrow and smirks.

“Wild night, huh?” she throws cheerfully, and Allison clasps her hand to her neck, panic clear in her eyes. Lydia just continues to paint her lips red. “Next time, apply some foundation to the hickey – that way you'll be safe even if your scarf moves around, like now.”

Allison excuses herself quickly, tying the silk tighter around her neck.)

The theory is too ridiculous to be true, but here she is, counting on her fingers people who she suspects are The Thing.

Her birthday is coming closer.

 

-

 

There is another man she keeps seeing, but he's a projection of her traumatized mind, because – let's make it perfectly clear – he's dead.

Alas, he torments her more often than not, showing up in places she wouldn't wish him to in her worst nightmares. He makes her throw a fit in her economy class, confirming everyone's suspicions that she's completely out of her mind.

His presence becomes a constant in her mind; the low, menacing voice ringing in her ears and ghost hands folding around her waist and neck, tips of ghostly teeth grazing her skin ever-so-slightly. He merges himself with the blue-eyed boy, becoming the embodiment of what she loves and what she hates. He tells her things, confirms her mad theories, bashes her friends for leaving her in the dark, not caring enough.

Peter Hale – the dead man, the burned, the devil – pushes at her memories, brutally clutching the bits she's regained herself and attacking the hidden ones. She cries (she's _so tired and drained and in so much pain_ ), but he's relentless, urging her to uncover the truth, the **whole** truth.

He breaks the walls, and they fall, like a dame under the flood.

 

-

 

The truth does not set her free – in fact, it binds her tighter she's ever been before.

“You're going to do as I tell you,” the man in her mind says, his ghost lips hovering above her thigh, feeling far too real for her taste.

She throws a party and leaves it in chaos, a blue flower of vervain clutched in her palm. She throws it in Derek Hale's face, later, and watches him choke and burn and fall senseless to the ground.

The old Hale house is a ruin, full of memories and pain painted into the burnt walls. She walks to the cellar, and an overwhelming smell of vervain hits her nostrils. There are dozens of flower pots, with blue flowers in full bloom, curling into her hand. She pushes the pots to the sides of the passage and moves forward to the closest cell. She unhooks the latch on the door.

He lies there, lifeless, breathless, with a dagger in his chest. His skin is ashen, black veins bold underneath his skin. Lydia's knees wobble a little when she bends by his side.

She curls her fingers around the dagger, its thin and cold handle, and pulls it out. It takes a monstrous effort of her, and she collapses against the wall, trying to catch her breath.

She half lies, half sits there, taking laboured gasps of air and keeping bile from rising in her throat. The man doesn't move for what feels like eternity, which makes a voice buried deep in her mind – _her_ voice – sing with hope that none of it will work, that his death cannot be undone.

Then, his body convulses – once, twice – and his eyes open (pale, unnervingly blue) and immediately find hers. His lips curl into a smirk, even as he struggles to regain his breath.

Lydia's vision blackens and she gratefully slips into unconsciousness.

 

-


End file.
